Hell in a Hand Basket
by Scarlett Wilde
Summary: 2008 John comes home from the hunt and finds his boys doing more than homework together. he can't believe what he's seeing... or what he's hearing. Wincest.


Title: Hell in a Hand Basket  
Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Wincest-y type stuff

Chapters: 1/1  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction, all similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.  
Summary: John finds the boys doing more than homework and guilt ensues.  
Pairing: Dean/Sam  
Archive: Please ask first  
Feedback: as always, yes please but no nits or shreds thanks

Written: 2008  
Author's Notes: meep I'm a mom, and hey, I did actually consider what finding them in mid-coitus would be like. Sam's almost 17 in this fic, Dean almost 21.

oooOooo

John knew he should have seen it coming. But he hadn't and a part of him would feel forever guilty for his part in things. He hadn't been there enough for them and they had only had each other to turn… and it's not as though either of them had it easy. New schools every couple of months. Palming them off on anyone who'd have them when they were much, much younger. Still, he should have seen this coming.

Whiskey, normally the solver of all his problems only seemed to aggravate this particular one. He knew he was going to hell in a hand basket already, but for this, he'd be reserved a special place in the especially nasty part of Hell.

The night had started off as ordinary as apple pie. Get up, drink a gallon of Dean's really bad black tar coffee and change one rumpled set of clothes that needed washing for a fresh set of rumpled clothes that didn't smell quite so bad, or have quite as many stains on them. He made a mental note to remind the boys to take a trip to the launderette and wash everything. He was pretty sure most of their stuff would walk there by itself.

The hunt had gone smoothly. He'd met up with Bobby and a couple of other hunters and they'd taken out the entire nest of vampires. It had been exhausting and bloody work and at 3am he'd finally crawled back to the non-descript motel they were currently calling home and gone to check on the boys.

He found them in bed together – and the definitely weren't cuddling or keeping warm.

He'd backed out as quietly as he could before either of them looked up from the ecstasy-induced state of pleasure. It was too late, the image burned on his eyelids for all eternity. He needed whiskey to get him through this one. But the further down the bottle he got, the more he was convinced this was all his doing, convinced himself he was the one who'd pushed them into this by being absent so much, by leaving Dean to raise Sam.

God, what a fucked up family he'd managed to drag up, Mary'd be so proud, he thought sarcastically as he tipped another shot of whiskey into the dirty mug and swallowed it in one gulp. It burned his throat but failed to take away the sour taste in his mouth.

His sons. Together. In one bed. Twisted around each other. Tongues so far down each other's throats he wondered briefly it were possible to breathe like that.

It wasn't as if he cared that either of the boys were gay or not… it was more troubling that they were being gay together. For fuck's sake, they were God damn brothers and as far as he was aware you didn't fuck your brother in the ass.

Shit! There was another image burned into his memory.

The night was steadily getting worse and worse.

He was just pouring himself another shot, when the boys' door opened and Dean ambled out in a pair of shorts and a cocky grin that slid of his face when he saw the black look John aimed at him.

Dean stood stock still, eyes wide and terrified, like a deer trapped in the headlights.

"You're back," he managed to speak even though his tongue had seriously doubled in size at the sight of John.

John arched his brow and shot Dean a look over his shoulder.

Dean wrapped his arms across his chest, shuffling from foot to foot uneasily. "Did the… ahh… did the hunt go well?"

John tipped his head in a slow, deliberate nod before tipping it back and downing the fresh tot of whiskey.

"Okay. I'm just gonna grab a drink and get back to bed," Dean's voice had never sounded that squeaky, even before it had broken into the huskily deep timbre it now – usually – held.

John ignored him and checked the bottle against the thin sliver of light that drifted in from the pink and green neon sign that hung on the wall outside. He waited until his eldest son had gotten himself a glass of water from the faucet and disappeared back into the room he was sharing with Sammy.

He wondered how long it had been going on. Sammy was sixteen, not even legal…and yet they'd certainly looked like they knew what they were doing, which meant they'd been doing it for some time… which posed his next question to himself: how come he hadn't noticed anything before now. Surely there must have been signs that they were… that his sons were… shit, he couldn't even say it now without a burning pain in his chest.

It was now that John admitted the whiskey wasn't helping and he finally sat the bottle square in the middle of the table and sighed deeply. He was going to have to quickly work out how to approach this whole situation because tomorrow he was going to have to face the pair of them.

Maybe he should call Bobby or maybe Pastor Jim… no, Bobby was the safer bet. Kinda hard to explain to even Pastor Jim what he'd seen, and what if Pastor Jim told him they'd all go to Hell for this. He already knew that's where he was heading. John wanted so much more for his boys than that – he'd done everything in his power to make the world a safer place.

He'd call Bobby in the morning when he trusted himself not to slur his words, or break down in tears. But for now he was going to go to bed and hope that in the morning, this was all just a bad dream.

oooOooo

Dean carried the glass of lukewarm water back to the room he was sharing with Sam. It wasn't what he'd gone for, but after seeing his dad sat at the small kitchenette table, he'd forgotten what he _had_ gone for.

"Did you get my candy?" Sam grinned in the darkness. His smile so wide and so bright that Dean could still see it even with the lights off. "Dean…?"

"Shh Sammy," he whispered, putting the glass on the bedside table. "Dad's outside and shit! I think he knows. He was drinking whiskey, and his face was as black as thunder. He's gonna kill us. Shit!"

"What's going to happen to us, Dean? I can't lose you. I don't think I could ever live without you," Sam had whimpered.

"You won't have to, Sammy. I'll always be here for you, you know that. Dad can't take that away from us. We're old enough to know what we want." Dean had done his best to reassure Sam, even though inside, he was trembling himself.

Sam blanched in the dark room. Dean heard the breath whoosh out of his baby brother's lungs and his heart thudded painfully against his chest. It wasn't Sam's fault, or even his. It was all they had never known – each other. Thrown into the same bed from an early age, left alone for period's way too long.

Dean had been Sam's everything and Sam had been Dean's everything, his reason to keep breathing. Neither of them was to blame for this. Neither of them had pushed for this, it had been a gradual progression of emotional need… love…

For Dean's entire life, it had revolved around Sam, and even though he knew this was wrong, he wasn't going to ever stop loving Sam. Because even though he knew that loving his brother the way he did was wronger than wrong, it still felt incredibly right and he wasn't going to let that go without a fight.

It didn't matter what their dad said, or how badly he whipped his ass over this. Sammy was his, always had been and always will be.

They were so going to hell in a hand basket for this.

Sam's whimper echoed loudly through the shadows and Dean crawled back into bed beside him, wrapping his arms around him and holding him as close as he could.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy. Not gonna let anyone, even dad, hurt you," Dean whispered, kissing the top of Sam's messy bed-head hair.

oooOooo

Things hadn't been okay, though.

John had gone seven shades of ballistic the next morning, threatening to send them to different parts of the US to keep them apart, telling them how unnatural they were and how they would have a special place in hell reserved for them.

It had taken Bobby all his might to pull John off Dean, and Sam off John.

A lot of screaming and shouting followed; a lot of empty threats and shallow accusations. A few smashed plates and broken glasses; and a heap of foreboding atmosphere.

Though they never spoke of it again, Sam never forgave John for making them sleep in separate beds in separate rooms, and Dean never got over losing his Sammy.

Less than a year later, Sam was gone. College had beckoned him, and he'd left, taking Dean's whole reason for being with him.

Dean knew at that moment that he would never love anyone the same way he had loved – still loved – his Sammy.


End file.
